All That Glitters
by LM
Summary: Some heroes are made. Some heroes are chosen. And some heroes are forged.
1. Prologue

_Disclaimer:_

Booster Gold and all other DC characters are--surprise!--owned by DC Comics. Used here for entertainment, not profit. If you want to sue me then you'd better at least pull Booster out of comic book limbo and give him his own title again or put him on a team, damn it! And what happened to that _Blue and Gold_ monthly that you taunted us readers with for years and years and then NEVER PUBLISHED, eh? Eh?

*ahem* Yes. 

I pulled info on Booster's origin from various comics--his own series, his Secret Origins entry, bits and pieces mentioned in the JLI. But I reworked some details and tweaked some stuff too, so don't expect it to match up _exactly_. If you haven't read any of the comics--that works too! You don't have to have! 

* * *

  


**_BOOSTER GOLD: YEAR ONE_**

  
_**Prologue**_

The golden rule is that there are no golden rules. - George Bernard Shaw, _Man and Superman_

  


It started, as so many things do, with Superman. The annual JLA/JSA holiday bash was in full, raucous swing when the Man of Steel, started recounting his earliest adventures. Not _too_ specifically, of course, in order to protect his secret identity . . . but the vague sense of setting did nothing to lessen his hilarious description of the first time he'd discovered that his skin was bulletproof. 

" . . . so the mugger just stood there with his mouth hanging open and smoke drifting from the barrel of his gun . . . and he just looked at me and went, 'What the heck??' (Only he didn't really say heck.) 'What the heck?? You . . . you AREN'T DEAD!' And I just kind of gaped and him and went, 'I'm NOT??'" And as his fellow heroes doubled over with laughter, Superman gave a semi-sheepish grin and said, "Hey, what do you expect? It was _year one!"_

The phrase struck a chord. Year One became a popular excuse for any early superheroic mishaps. "Hey, hey, Year One!" Barbara Gordon, aka Oracle, protested when Black Canary teased her about the fact that her first villain was the unaspiring Killer Moth. And when the Flash gleefully began telling Connor Hawke about how Green Lantern had gotten lost the first time he was in space, Kyle rolled his eyes and said, "Give me a break, dude. Year One, y'know?" 

Year One did not _necessarily_ last a year--it could be shorter or longer-- but it was always a time of testing, learning, striving, gaining skills and acceptance. It was the time when the other heroes couldn't remember your codename and kept asking you if you were _sure_ you weren't a supervillain, when you accidentally pulled out an explosive batarang instead of a smoke cloud pellet or unwisely invited Aquaman to a seafood restaurant. Every hero, it seemed, was destined to suffer through a Year One. 

Almost.

Given that Superman had set the rule, it was perhaps not _so_ surprising that Booster Gold proved to be the exception. Booster was the quintessential overnight success. 

Bruce Wayne--although he would never admit this--had been severely beaten on his first night out fighting crime. 

Clark Kent had wandered around for years before working up the nerve to become Superman. 

Booster Gold, on his first mission, single-handedly saved _the President of the United States_ from an _assassination attempt._ On national television, no less! 

Without effort, without awkwardness, he inspired and graciously accepted the adulation of the masses. Women wanted him and men wanted to be him. He was popular. He was wealthy. He didn't make stupid blunders over his secret identity. (He didn't have one.) He didn't accidentally draw attention to his lair by dropping flares or incendiary arrows. (His headquarters were not only public, but also listed in the phone book.) Booster Gold had it all. The other heroes shook their heads, some in bemusement, some in disgust. No one was sure what to make of this sudden success story, this young hero who so brazenly staked a claim in Metropolis _(Superman's_ town!) and courted the public eye with a dedication bordering on obsession. The one thing that everyone in the cape-and-cowl set could agree on was that Booster had mysteriously bypassed the Year One syndrome. 

They were wrong, of course. No one escapes a rite of passage. 

It was just that Booster Gold's Year One had been--or would be--five hundred years in the future. 


	2. Chapter One

  


_**Chapter One**_

Happy the man who, like Ulysses, has made a fine voyage, or has won the Golden Fleece, and then returns, experienced and knowledgeable, to spend the rest of his life among his family! - _Joachim Du Bellay_

* * *

  


The year was 2444. 

Mikey's parents were arguing as he knelt by the coffee table, surrounded by crayons. The shouting was a common occurrence, so he was not paying too much attention to the raised voices and angry accusations. Instead, he was intently coloring, with his tongue sticking out of one corner of his mouth in concentration. Mikey was drawing the house that his family would someday live in, except it wasn't really a house, but a palace with a thousand rooms. It would have a hundred hovercars, so they could go wherever they wanted without having to check the public monorail schedules first, and also a room full of clothes, brand new clothes that they could wear once and then throw away (if they wanted to) instead of going to the Goodwill for countless boring hours to get worn, funny-smelling things. 

Mikey paused to switch crayons and began drawing a room full of toys; because he was generous, he also drew a room full of toys for his sister Michelle. (Her room was slightly smaller. But that was okay, she was shorter than Mikey anyway.) When they lived in the palace, they would be able to own a puppy and a kitten and there wouldn't be an apartment manager to tell them "no" and refuse to fix the faucets. They would have their own theatre for holofilms too of course, and a spaceship, and a VR chamber with all the latest games, and a whole floor each for Mommy and Daddy. There would be grass and flowers around the house, like at the park, so that Mommy could garden like she'd always wanted to. And Daddy could have a stable, a big stable full of horses and a big racetrack, because he liked horses so very much. 

And then they'd all be happy forever. Mikey had planned it out _very_ carefully. 

Mikey put down his crayons and held the drawing at arms length to examine it. He thought it looked good, their palace. Hopefully they could move there soon. He wanted to show his picture to Mommy and Daddy, but they were still yelling, so he went looking for his sister instead. Michelle was in the kitchen, baking. Her version of baking was taking a glass of water, stirring in different herbs from the spice drawer, and then trying to convince other people to taste it. Mommy did not encourage Michelle to bake. 

Mikey pulled up a chair and showed Michelle his picture. She watched carefully with big blue eyes as he explained each room, but she didn't stop stirring her glass of spice-filled water. Then she wanted to know why her room of toys was smaller than Mikey's. He explained that she's shorter. 

"But I'm older," she said, which was true. She was older by almost three minutes. After Mikey promised to make her room bigger and also share his toys with her ( . . . sometimes . . . ), she said it was a good picture. "But where's the swimming pool?" she added. Mikey couldn't believe he'd forgotten something so vital. He thanked his twin and headed back to the coffee table, where his crayons were. 

But Mikey couldn't reach his crayons because Daddy had slammed a suitcase down on the coffee table while he put on his coat. He was still yelling, but Mommy wasn't; she was just crying as she sat on the couch with her hands over her face. Mikey hung back, holding his drawing in both hands and feeling a little worried because usually Mommy didn't cry. But she was crying now, and shouting too as Daddy grabbed his suitcase and stomped towards the door. He paused with his hand on the doorknob, shouting angrily over his shoulder, before stomping out and slamming the door behind him so hard that the floor trembled. Mommy sat back down on the couch, still crying. Seeing her made Mikey feel funny, like he wanted to cry too, but last week Daddy called him a big boy, and he knew big boys didn't cry. 

Instead he went to his room and climbed up to his bunk bed and sat there for a while, looking at his drawing. Maybe if he showed it to Mommy and Daddy at dinner, they would forget what they were fighting about and be happy. But when dinner time came, Daddy was still not home and Mommy's eyes were red. She sat staring into her bowl of tomato soup and didn't even scold Michelle when she started trying to lap her soup up with her tongue, pretending to be a cat. Mommy's bowl was still full when Mikey and Michelle finished their meal. She silently scrubbed off Michelle's tomato-stained face with a washcloth and then kissed them as she put them to bed. 

Daddy wasn't at dinner the next day, either. Or the day after that. Michelle asked Mikey where he thought Daddy was. At first Mikey wasn't sure, but then it occurred to him; he must be away on a business trip. Some of his friends in the church playgroup had parents who went away on them. Of course, their parents mostly wore suits and ties while his Daddy wore work overalls with grease stains, but where else could he be? 

A few more days passed and Mikey began wishing Daddy would get back on his business trip. He didn't want to bother Mommy, her eyes were still all red, but he wondered when Daddy would get back. He wandered into the living room, found the remote control wedged between the seat cushions on the couch, and turned on the holoprojector. Three-dimensional images popped up from the flat, horizontal surface of the holoprojector, almost like real life except the images were a little bit see-through. It was on Daddy's favorite channel, the one with all the horses on it. Mikey would have liked a horse, but not as much as he would have liked a kitten, which could play with a string and purr. But he didn't change the channel because he secretly hoped that he'd see Daddy in the throngs of virtual people watching and shouting encouragement to the horses, which were running around and around the oval track. The animals were wearing colored cloth masks over their heads that reminded Mikey of knights' horses in his storybooks, and he wondered if Daddy had gone to visit some knights, or maybe to become a knight. 

After a little bit, Mikey got an idea. He fetched his crayons and a piece of paper and began to draw, carefully keeping one eye on the holoprojector for reference. He wore away most of the point on his brown crayon, but that was all right. At last his masterpiece was complete. He went and found Mommy, who was sitting in the kitchen staring into a cup of coffee. Mikey climbed into her lap and she held him and called him her little angel. That's what he was named after--an angel. Mikey let her ruffle his blond hair for a minute, then pulled out his drawing. He explained it as he showed it to her. He pointed to the brown horse with its big, lopsided smile and explained that it's wearing a headpiece of yellow and blue so the other knights would know who it belongs to. He had drawn a rider on the horse, also in yellow and blue because on the holoprojector the riders always matched their horses. However, he had also added a lance and a helmet with a feathery plume coming out the top, because every knight should have those. 

Usually Mommy praised his drawing and stuck them on the wall, but today she silently rocked him back and forth, cradling him with one hand and holding the drawing in the other. 

"Do you like it, Mommy?" he asked at last. 

She kept rocking him. 

Feeling that further explanation was necessary, he added, "See? It's me, all grown up. Like Daddy." 

Mikey heard the paper crumple in her hand as she hugged him close, so close that it was a little bit hard to breathe. As he hugged her back, he could not for the life of him understand why Mommy was crying. 

  



	3. Chapter Two

  


_**Chapter Two**_

Recommend to your children virtue; that alone can make them happy, not gold. - _Ludwig van Beethoven_

* * *

  


The year was 2448. 

Michael was sitting at the dinner table, interrupting Michelle to tell his mother about his day. He only answered to Michael now, not Mikey, because Mikey was a baby name. Michael was all of eight years old and went to school, so obviously he was no baby. 

His mother shushed him, telling him to let Michelle finish _her_ story first. Michael couldn't imagine why anyone would want to hear such boring girl stuff, but he pretended to listen anyway. She was going on about some toy ponies that some of her friends had at school. When Michelle started hopefully listing the many and varied features of the new pony playset that would be available at Christmas, Mama's face creased the same way it did when the monthly bills arrived and she reminded Michelle that they don't have money for "frivolities." Despite having guessed the answer, Michael didn't blame Michelle for trying. Who didn't want more toys, after all? 

"And how was _your_ day, Michael?" Mama finally said, smiling as she began to clear away the dishes. 

Michael and Michelle were in all the same classes, being twins, but their mother always asked both of them. It was better to go first, though, because then you got to tell all the interesting parts first. Michael was still trying to think of something that his sister hadn't mentioned when Michelle piped up. "Mikey started a _fight!"_ she announced in a sing-song voice. 

"Don't call me that," he replied, scowling at her. "And I . . . I did _not."_

"Oh Michael . . ." His mother covered her face with a hand, and when she lowered it her eyes are sad. 

"I . . ." Michael stared at the crumbs dotting the tablecloth. "I didn't _start_ it." 

His mother sighed so deeply and so sadly that Michael wished he could just disappear. Michelle looked a little anxious now, perhaps wishing she hadn't brought the subject up. Well, she SHOULD feel that way. Tattletale. 

"Michelle, go pick up the toys on the floor in your bedroom," Mom said. Michelle slowly retreated, looking halfway relieved and halfway reluctant to miss whatever was coming next. Meanwhile, Michael's stomach turned over a couple times. "Well?" his mother asked at last, tilting his chin up so their eyes met. 

"Well . . . I was . . . I was playing tag and I was standing at homebase and then Tommy Veriselli came up and said . . ." he hesitated. Tommy Veriselli, who was two years older than him, had said horrible, hateful things. He had stated with smug authority that Michael's father had been arrested for drugs--selling them, not using them--and that he, Tommy, knew that for sure because _his_ dad was a cop. He then added that people who try to climb out of the gutters always fell back in them. Michael was not at all sorry that he punched the smirk right off Tommy's face, but he couldn't tell his mother the horrible things that he said. Instead, he improvised. "He said I was dumb and . . . and that I, um, smell bad." 

Mama quirked an eyebrow. "And is that true?" 

"I'm _not_ dumb," Michael said defiantly. "And I get too many baths to be smelly." (He got too many baths, period, in his opinion, but now was not the time for that subject.) 

"And what did you do when he said those things?" 

"I . . . um, I hit him. He wasn't real hurt, though. A teacher saw us and, um, stopped us . . ." 

"Oh, Michael . . ." She sighed again and he felt small. "What did the teacher say?" 

"She took us both to the principal's office." They had sat glowering on the benches outside the office for a long, long time before they had been called in, one at a time. 

"And what did _he_ say?" 

"He called me a troubled youth." Michael thought that the principal would be troubled too if people said things like that about him. "He said not to fight, and that they would be, um, looking for patterns or something . . . But Mama, Tommy called me--" 

"Michael." She held out her hand and he fell silent as he reached for it. His mother led him out of the kitchen, through the dining room, and into her bedroom. Everything in here was in soft, muted colors and the whole room smelled of lavender. She knelt by the small bookcase by her bed and pulled out a thick book with a worn, tattered cover. Books weren't common these days and Michael knew this one is very old indeed because the picture on the front was flat and two-dimensional, not like holo-photos that leapt off the page. "This book was written," Mama said, "by a man named Gandhi. He lived in a time when a lot of people discriminated against him--looked down on him--because of who he was." 

"Why? Who was he?" Michael asked. 

"He was a thoughtful, compassionate man and a very skillful lawyer. But because of how he looked and where he came from, the people in charge looked down on him. Sometimes he would buy a ticket on the train--a train is like a monorail on the ground--and the guards would refuse to give him good seats. Or he would go to a hotel and the staff wouldn't let him eat in the dining room with the other guests." 

The man on the front of the book must be Gandhi. Michael didn't see anything wrong with the way he looked. Was it because he wore glasses? Those people must have been stupid. "What did Gandhi do? Did he sue them?" 

"He could've. He could've sued every train company that made him sit in the third class compartments after he'd bought a first class ticket, and every hotel that denied him service, and every person who tried to keep him out of a courtroom because of who he was . . ." 

"But he didn't?" 

"No. Because even though he wanted very badly for things to be better for himself and his people, he knew that if he fought everyone who ever hurt him, he would be hurting _himself_ in the long run. People wouldn't take him seriously and he would be labeled a troublemaker. So instead he waited patiently for the fights that mattered, the fights that could change things, and when small people tried to make him angry, he just pocketed their insults and moved on. Do you understand what I'm saying, Michael?" She looked deep into his eyes. "Sometimes you have to pocket the insults. At the end of the day, it doesn't matter what Tommy Veriselli thinks. Okay?" 

Michael looked at the book and saw Gandhi gazing at him encouragingly with his crinkled face and kind smile. "Okay." 

Mama smiled at him and ruffled his hair. "Good. Good boy." 

When he went back to his room, he saw Michelle sitting on the lower bunk, watching him with her big blue eyes. She surprised him by apologizing for telling on him, then added, "Did he really say you were smelly?" 

"Who cares?" Michael said as he grabbed his pajamas and toothbrush and heads to the bathroom. Then he climbed onto his own bunk. After a few minutes he looked over the side and asked, "How did you know about that, anyway? You were in here picking up toys." 

"I hid outside the doorway and listened," she replied. "But I had to run in here when you and Mama left the kitchen. What did you talk about next?" 

"Stuff," he said. He lay flopped on his stomach, thinking. About Gandhi. And fighting. And Daddy. No matter what Tommy stupid Veriselli said, Michael knew that someday he'd come back and it'd turn out that he's been away on some secret mission and the gambling debts were just part of a big cover story. He'd hug Michael and comment on how tall he's grown, and then he'd turn around and have Tommy's stupid dad booted right off the police force. When he finally fell asleep, Michael has a smile on his face. 

The next day of school went by without incident. After the school bus dropped Michael home, he noticed an opened letter lying on the lamptable in the living room. It was from the Reformed Child Protective Services, whatever that was. Michael unfolded the letter, but was lost as soon as he gets to the first line, which read, "As you may be aware, under the new presidential administration the RCPS has taken a more **aggressive** and **proactive** approach to identifying potential problems . . ." The rest was more of the same, although Michael was surprised to spot his name in the first paragraph. Also the words "troubled youth," "at risk," and "disturbing pattern of degenerative behavior." The only clear part of the letter was where it asked Mama to a meeting, which apparently had taken place earlier that day. 

Michael had barely put the letter down when Mama entered the room and hurried over to him, kneeling and hugging him close. "You didn't get into any fights today, did you? I know it's hard sometimes, Michael, but please, please stop fighting." 

Didn't they already have this conversation last night? "I didn't get into any fights. Tommy said some . . . some _things_ at recess, but I pretended I couldn't hear him." 

"Good. That's good. Ignore him. Ignore them all." She hugged him tighter still and he could feel her tears wet against his face as she kisses him and whispers, "I couldn't bear it if I lost my little angel." 

Michael hugged her as hard as he could, not sure what she meant or why she was crying. But he had a vague feeling that he was going to have to get pretty good at pocketing insults.

  



	4. Chapter Three

  


_**Chapter Three**_

The golden moments in the stream of life rush past us and we see nothing but sand; the angels come to visit us, and we only know them when they are gone. - _George Elliot_

* * *

  


The year was 2450.

Michael leaned back in a hard wooden pew in St. Bernadine's, listening to the choir soar. It wasn't Sunday, but Thursday, when Mama practiced with the other ladies in the choir. There were men in the loft too, of course--tenors with voices that swelled and baritones striking deep, morose chords--but the group was still overwhelmingly female, and seemed to enjoy chatting and visiting between songs as much as the singing the music. They hymns themselves, though beautiful, would have sounded better if the choir director did not stop the singers every other minute to encourage them to "open up the vowels" or "e_nun_ciate!"

"Lord have mercy (Lord have mercy) . . . Christ have mercy (Christ have mercy) . . . Lord have mercy (Lord have mercy) . . ." the cantor and choir echoed to each other, deep and solemn and overlapping.

Michelle often sat with the choir and sang with them, but Michael preferred to listen from below, where he could hear the voices echoing against the vaulted ceiling. While he did not particularly enjoy attending church on Sundays when he was being forced into his "nice" clothes (nice being a relative term) and having his face scrubbed far too vigorously, it was an _interesting_ place if you had time to sit back and look at it. Everything in it was strange and alien; time stood still here. The pews were made of wood--weathered and knicked and worn, but _real wood!_ It was illegal to buy it any more and there was no more to sell anyway, but the Church had obtained special permission to keep the pieces they already had, passed on from previous generations. Not that everything in the church was old, of course . . . the kneelers hovered neatly two inches above the floor and the walls were insulated with technological sound-proofing that blotted out the persistent roar of the city that had grown around St. Bernadine's, threatening to engulf and overwhelm the little church which crouched beneath the grime and bustle of Gotham City.

"Mary and Jo-seph (pray for us) . . . Michael and all an-gels (pray for us) . . . Anna, Jo-a-chim, E_liz_abeth (pray for us) . . . Elijah, Moses, John the _Bap_tist (pray for us) . . ."

Looking over the pews and the raised altar in the front of the church and the baptismal font in the back were the jewel-like stained glass windows, arching up with triumphant, frozen figures in robes that glowed (even in sackcloth) in even the darkest night, backlit by the cold, undying lights of Gotham. Bright glass halos shone around the saints, resplendent not only in the traditional gold, but also blue and green and red as they raised their hands in benediction. 

"Isaac, Sarah, Abraham (pray for us) . . . Jacob, Joseph, _Sam_uel (pray for us) . . . Ruth, David, and Sol-o-mon (pray for us) . . . Isaiah, Jere_mi_ah (pray for us) . . ."

Tonight, though, the priests and deacons, their stoles and garments fluttering around them like soft linen wings, hurried through the side aisles hanging black draperies over the windows, using long sticks with hooked ends to hoist up the black cloth. Tomorrow was Good Friday, the Church's day of grief and loss, and so the smiling sanctity of the saints was denied for one day. Michael didn't understand why it was called "Good" Friday if it was the day Christ died and Jesus, gazing down from his wooden cross in front of the altar with his dark, sorrowful eyes, looked as though he didn't understand it either.

"All . . . you . . . ho-ly . . . men and wo-men . . . pray for us . . ." (The litany faded as the choir director paused to appeal to the choir ladies "to end the response right on the downbeat." A few minutes later their voices rose in a new song.)

The black marble altar behind the cross, though chipped and worn concave in places by generations of adoration, was still beautiful, with the white wall behind it (hiding the sanctuary) and the smooth stone table crowning it (where the priest, deacons, and eucharistic ministers gathered during Mass.) 

"Adoramus te, adoramus te, et bene-_di_-ci-mus ti-bi . . ."

No one remembered Latin any more, except the sound of it. The exact meanings behind the words had been lost sometime between the last two world wars. Fragments could be pieced together--this one was, presumably, about adoring something. No one knew quite what, but when it was sung the meaning could almost be remembered, nagging like a half-forgotten memory.

" . . . quia per sanc-tam . . . crucem tu-am . . . re-de-mi-sti . . . mundum."

The last word boomed in the empty church--"moon-_doom."_ It fit the mood, somehow . . . solemn and unhappy and expansive. Michael knew from the sad, low sound that this one would be for Good Friday, not Easter Sunday . . . 

"When I survey . . . the wondrous cross . . . on which the Prince of glo-ry died . . .  
"My richest gain . . . I count but loss . . . and _pour_ con-tempt on a-a-a-a-all . . . my pride," the choir sang.

High on the sanctuary wall sat a fat, white, burning candle in a little glass container with an open top and high sides, to protect the flame from drafts. Mama had explained it to Michael once; it was lit off the Easter candle, the big, white Easter candle that was half again as tall as he was, and which danced with a light that originated in the bonfire at Easter Vigil. Michael's favorite part of Easter was the wild, leaping fire, snapping with tongues of flame higher than his head and throwing sprays of sparks over the church parking lot. Technically, they were not supposed to light fires in the parking lot or anywhere else. Fire, in all its forms, was illegal. But every year they did anyway. "For God," Michael once heard the priest say, "we must dare."

"Forbid it, Lord . . . that I should boast . . . save in the death of Christ, my God . . .  
"The vain delights . . . that charm me most . . . I _sac_-ri-fice them to-o-o-o-o . . . His blood."

Like the bonfire, like the Easter candle, the cheerful, winking sanctuary candle symbolized the light of Christ. Or, as Mama simply said, "When the candle is lit, God is here." And the candle was always there, lit, except during this part of Holy Week. Michael watched the priest climb up on a funny, out of place stepstool and carefully cup a hand over the top of the sanctuary candle's casing as he picked it up, glass frame and all, went down the ladder (awkwardly, since his hands were full), and hurry away to the sanctuary. Although he felt a little sad to see it go, Booster knew it would be back on Sunday, like the saints in the windows . . . 

"Adoramus te, adoramus te, et bene-_di_-ci-mus ti-bi . . ."

The choir sang softer now, with a rustling, restless air that told Michael that they were almost done and that the ladies were only keeping one eye on the music as they gathered their coats and hats on the side. St. Bernadine's was dark now, with all the side windows covered in heavy black. The only light came from the choir loft (with its halo of electricity centered around the organ) and the final window, the round one at the end of the church (higher than the others) that Saint Michael filled with his sweeping wings. He held a sword to slay the Devil and a shield to protect the church, and the dirty lights from the city shone through his wings and armor and became something beautiful.

Michael gazed up at his patron, small before the stretching wings. He could hear the choir ladies hurrying down the worn stairs behind him, chattering, but at that moment all that mattered to him were the jeweled squares of light surrounding him in a nimbus of blue and green and gold. But the priest was thorough; a black drapery, kept unobtrusively above the window all year long but only rolled down on Good Friday, was unhooked. Slowed by the cords that once bound it, the midnight cloth unfurled slowly, rolling over the archangel's face and sword and outstretched wings. 

And Michael found himself sitting in the dark. Alone.

  



	5. Chapter Four

  


_**Chapter Four**_

Practicing the Golden Rule is not a sacrifice; it is an investment. - _Anonymous_

* * *

  


The year was 2454.

Michael Carter found high school, if not enjoyable, at least _tolerable._ In grade school, he had been a loner and a bit of an outcast, and had pocketed many an insult indeed. Now he still hung back from the crush and giggle of the high school cliques, but most people ignored him with benign indifference. Oddly, although he and Michelle had previously been in the same straits and provided moral support to each other, she was adopted by a gaggle of laughing, shrieking girls as soon as they began high school. Michael supposed it was a girl thing--much like the way they giggled and whispered when a boy (ANY boy) walked by and always ALWAYS traveled in packs, even to the bathroom. (He thought the girls' restrooms must be ten times larger than the boys', to accommodate the sudden herds of twenty to thirty girls rushing into them from all directions at the scheduled breaks.)At any rate, he didn't bother his twin during school hours and he skirted crowds feeling only a little bit awkward. 

If Michael didn't have any _close_ friends, at least he had friendly acquaintances whom he could talk to and sit with during lunch--Valan Smith, with his face laced with cybernetics thanks to a childhood accident, and Sprig Parson, with his nervous stutter, and Jeff Chung, who lived only a few blocks from Michael in the bad part of town, and Doug Wiesner, who--sadly--was born with the most annoying personality known to man (although Michael tried hard to like him.) They gathered together in a loose fellowship, misfits all, to chat and compare notes on which classes were best and which upper classmen were to be avoided--some of them had such a reputation for pushing around underclassmen (or anyone smaller and weaker) that if Michael saw them in the halls, he would turn heel and take an alternate route rather than risk a confrontation. Gandhi would have been proud.

The only thing that really bothered Michael was that while Valan had an instinctive understanding of all math up to and including sine and cosine and Jeff wrote his English essays at 5 AM before school and still got A's on them and Sprig excelled in electronics, he himself was not particularly good at anything. He was at best an average student, and often below average, in terms of grades. The only thing all his teachers could agree on was that he "wasn't living up to his full potential." His report cards always displayed remarks like "No attention span", "Needs to put some effort into his work", or, in the case of sarcastic Mr. Crenshaw, who had never liked him to begin with, "The flesh is willing, but the spirit is weak." That last one stung, as Michael hated above all else to be considered weak. But he couldn't help drifting off during class. He didn't care about science or math or English. He was bored. 

The one class he had really enjoyed had been Mr. Pelaroni's World Events class, which managed to draw the past and the present together in a tangled but fascinating web of politics and intrigue, cause and effect. Michael liked the short, stout little teacher whose voice squeaked whenever he was overcome with excitement and who was fascinated by the political and historical figures who wove the world around them by force of diplomacy and personality. 

But a mere two weeks after the course started, Michael entered the classroom to discover that Mr. Pelaroni had abruptly been replaced with the smiling and vapid Miss Vallem, a teacher so irritatingly sugary that Michael _had_ to tune out during class, lest he scream from frustration. The lessons became so numbingly generic and non-specific that he still pulled fairly good grades in the class, but he always wondered what had become of Mr. Pelaroni. He overheard one of the administrators refer to him as "subversive" once, but that hardly helped. Michael reluctantly accepted that he was doomed to a life of boredom, but not before faithfully writing out Mr. Pelaroni's favorite phrase and taping it up inside his locker: "Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it." It seemed appropriate. 

After the World Events debacle, Michael drifted through his classes, only brightening during lunchtime and the morning and afternoon breaks, when he hung out with Valan, Sprig, Jeff, and (reluctantly) Doug. In time he struck up a cautious sort of friendship with them, the kind inspired by shared hardships, and in a fit of self-deprecating irony, they began calling themselves "the Inferior Five." Everyone needs _something_ to belong to.

One of "the joys of froshdom," as Jeff put it, was that the freshman's faded and scratched lockers, smelling of old plastic, were in the same hall as the _seniors'_ lockers. Freshmen lockers on the left, senior lockers on the right. Jeff had a second pet phrase for the situation as well: "A new definition of hell." Michael had to agree. The upperclassmen hated the arrangement and, by association, the freshmen. The freshmen hated the seniors too, of course, but the seniors had an advantage. They were _bigger._

The freshmen in general and Michael and his friends in particular spent a lot of time dodging away from an advancing mob of hulking, irritable seniors who would as soon kick the freshmen out of the way as ask them to move. Senior classes were stressful and nothing relieved stress more than pushing around someone smaller, or so it seemed. 

Still, the freshmen managed.

For a while.

The turning point came the day the posters went up--thin, plastic posters with excited, bold letters punctuated by many an exclamation mark. "Come EXPERIENCE the fun of SPORTS!!!!" the poster read. "An exciting REVIVAL of the FUN and GAMES of the last CENTURIES!!!! Sponsored by the Reformed and Reorganized Board of Education . . . Because a BUSY body is a HAPPY body!!!!!" Details were listed below in a smaller font, but the crowd of upperclassmen milling around the poster guaranteed that the self-proclaimed Inferior Five couldn't read them.

"Considering how busy we are avoiding the 'senior citizens', we must be pretty damn happy," Jeff observed cheerfully as they gathered in a convenient corner.

"If only we could market it," Michael added, glaring at the mob, which was blocking the path to his locker. "If they don't clear out soon, I'm going to be late to class . . ."

"Dare you to push the general alarm button," Jeff grinned, but Sprig said, "The last k-kid who tried that got exp-p-pelled." (Sprig always sounded nervous because of his stutter, though he was really as level-headed as anyone Michael knew.)

"Good point, Sprig," Valan nodded solemnly in time to the blinking lights of the cybernetic implants lacing the left side of his face. If the Five had been a little more organized or a bit more respectful, they might have considered Valan their leader, but living on the fringes had given the group a cynical sense of humor, and the constantly amused are seldom the easily led. It wasn't as if they had anywhere to be led towards anyway.

"Go away, go away, go away," Michael willed as he shifted restlessly and eyed the crowd.

"I d-don't think they're listening, Michael," Sprig said.

"Maybe you should talk louder," Doug giggled in his irritating voice. The others looked at him. "Whaaaat?" he demanded in his nasal whine.

"Seriously though, what do I do if I can't grab my holo-books?"

"You have History of Electronics next?" Valan said. "I can lend you mine." He slid off his flexible vinyl backpack and began to sort through it.

"That would be--" Michael cut himself off, feeling someone tugging on his sleeve. He blinked and turned around. "Ah. Oh," he said uneasily.

His first instinct was to back away from the person in front of him, who peered at him with his shiny black eyes from under thick, pale rolls of flesh. He was short and stumpy, not overweight in the conventional sense, but with an overabundance of flesh strapped under a taut layer of mottled skin. His proportions were . . . wrong, asymmetrical . . . and only a faint fringe of wiry, dark hair spread over his head. Like a distortion of humanity, Michael thought, trying not to notice that the thick hand resting on his shoulder had the wrong number of digits. He was not about to pull away and look stupid and scared in front of his friends, so he held his ground and said, "Yeah?"

Michael instantly thought how stupid that must sound, but it seemed to suffice, because the . . . person . . . replied. In a painful, high-pitched voice that made Michael's skin prickle, he said, "My . . . name is . . . Roland." He stretched out a hand, open-palmed.

"Um . . . I'm, uh, Michael. Michael Carter." Michael cautiously grasped Roland's hand, then immediately let go of it upon contacting his cool, clammy skin. Doug let out a brief snicker behind him--probably due to the kid's(?) appearance--but it was swiftly cut off, probably due to a swift kick administered by Sprig or Jeff. Michael was just wondering if he expected to be introduced to the rest of the Five--or what?--when Roland spoke again.

"Do you . . . know where . . . Locker 614 . . . is?"

"Oh. Sure. Uh, that'll be halfway down the hall. About there." Michael pointed midway down the freshman portion of the hallway.

"Thank . . . you," Roland said in his polite, disturbing voice. He turned and stumped off.

"Well, that was . . . interesting," Michael said, expelling a breath he didn't know he'd been holding as he resisted the urge to wipe his hand on his pants. 

"What h-happened to h-him?" Sprig asked in a murmur. "Do you th-think he got in an accident or--?"

"Nah, he's a mutate," Jeff said a low voice. _"You_ know . . . born in a high radiation area so his genes are all screwed up."

"And they let him come _here?"_

"It's not contagious, Doug," Valan reminded him in his even voice. "'To mutate is a twist of fate.'" It would have been a lot more impressive if Michael didn't recognize that he'd lifted the phrase from a series of public service announcements broadcast by holoprojector.

"Where do you think he's f-from?"

"Could be a lot of places," Jeff said. "California . . . Canada . . . Spain . . ."

"Spain? I thought it had a safe level of REMs," Michael said, turning his back to the sea of students slowly parting before Roland as people paused in clusters to whisper and stare.

"You're k-kidding, right? Ever h-hear of 'Europe', Michael?"

"It was in _Europe?_ I figured if it was the Spanish-speaking ones it was down around Brazil and Chile and all those. Grife, that means I failed _another_ history exam," Michael said morosely.

Valan patted his shoulder in sympathy. "Don't feel bad; it's easy to get confused when all those countries that were always in flux . . ." He trailed away, his faintly glowing green cybernetic eye and his good blue eye focusing on something across the hall. Michael turned his head and understood why as he watched a particularly well-muscled senior knock Roland's books out of his pudgy hands with a well-placed kick.

To be fair, a similar incident probably would have occurred even if freshman hall had not been across from the senior lockers. Roland had committed the twin sins of being different and being weak. Given that these were traits that were already scorned and exploited by the most ruthless of the upperclassmen, he was probably an irresistible target. 

Somehow that didn't make Michael feel better as he watched one senior firmly plant a foot on Roland's school supplies, then kick them so they skidded across the floor. "What's the matter, mutie? Lose your books?"

"It's stupid Crelin . . . what a jerk," Jeff muttered.

"A s-sprocking a-asshole," Sprig agreed.

Meanwhile, another hulking senior put a hand to his face in mock dismay: "Awwww, the poor little mutie lost his books. "Too _baaaaad."_ A group of four or five others laughed, adding taunts of their own.

"Please . . . I will be . . . late to class," Roland said with perfect calm, kneeling to retrieve his possessions. 

"Oh dear . . . not _that!_ Here, let me help you." Crelin, the ringleader of the bullies, gathered an assortment of holopads and holo-books in his arms and straightened up, acting as if he were about to hand them over to Roland. From across the hall, the Inferior Five watched in stony disapproval, but not great surprise, as he purposely dropped them at the last minute with an exclamation of "OOPS!" 

He followed up by "accidentally" crushing a visio-scanner (required for some science courses) beneath his heel. Michael's jaw clenched when he heard the crunch, remembering how much the device had cost. Roland actually seemed to be taking it better, as he merely said, in his strange, calm voice, "Please . . . leave me . . . alone."

"You want to be left alone?" Kick. Data-pens and info-pads clattering everywhere. "You're the one who should be leaving _us_ alone." Kick. The halls were clearing out now, with students rushing for their classes as the first bell rang. No one spared more than a curious glance at the strange drama unfolding in the hallway. "Go back where you came from, freak!"

"We should get a teacher or something--" Valan said uncomfortably. "Hey Michael, you okay?"

Michael's eyes blazed, blue and hard. "Pocket the insult," he muttered . . . but this insult was not his to pocket. He watched the seniors kick the mutate's holo-books across the floor, laughing, and he felt a surge of anger. Without consciously choosing to, he found himself marching across the hall, ignoring the frantic whispers of his friends. Without pausing, without allowing himself time for second thoughts, he tapped Crelin's thick slab of a shoulder. The upperclassman turned around, eyes narrowed.

"Why don't you leave him alone?" Michael snapped in a voice mixed with defiance and anger.

Crelin stared, then sneered. "I got a question for you too, Carter. Why don't you just crawl back to the ghetto and mind your own business?" 

He caught Michael's shirt, first pulling him close enough that he could feel the hot stink of Crelin's breath and then shoving him backwards, sending him crashing into his locker. One of the shelves gave way, sending pens and info-pads cascading around him as he crashed to the floor. The seniors guffawed and slapped one another one the back. 

Michael slowly picked himself up. Sprig and Jeff moved to help him, but he silently waved them away as he dusted himself off. He regarded the upperclassmen with a fixed stare as they returned to the "sport" of tormenting their original victim. 

"M-Michael--" Sprig began in a whisper, eyeing first the seniors, then the exit.

But Michael had already plotted his course. He stalked across the hallway and determinedly tapped Crelin on the shoulder again. He didn't respond at first, so he tapped harder. At last the senior turned, rippling and bulging with muscle--

--and Michael punched him in the face as hard as he could.

Caught off guard, Crelin didn't make a sound as he tumbled backwards, right into his friends. They whipped around in surprise, staring incredulously from Michael (who was rubbing his knuckles) to Crelin (who was on the ground.) And then, as one, they howled and leapt.

Five seconds into the fight, Michael came to two conclusions.

One: He had started a fight he couldn't possibly win.

Two: He wasn't sorry at all. 

Michael, who had spent six years diligently avoiding conflicts, was severely unprepared to deal with multiple opponents, all of whom significantly outweighed him. By rights, the whole things should have been over in less than a minute. And it probably would have been, if Valan Smith hadn't leapt out of nowhere, screaming "HYYYYYAH!" as he wrapped himself around a senior's head. (Valan, it should be noted, was an obsessive fan of martial arts vid-flicks.) Not to be outdone, Jeff tried to tackle one of the combatants (with limited success) as Sprig dashed in and began throwing clumsy punches of his own. Even Doug got in on the act, hitting one of the bullies over the head with a binder. 

The quantity of the combatants might have suddenly evened out, but the quality was clearly still on the seniors' side--a fact driven home as Crelin caught Michael by the collar and slammed him back against the lockers. "Bad move, Carter," he snarled. "Reeeeal bad move."

Michael was just about to lash out with one final kick while simultaneously preparing himself for a world of pain when one of the seniors--Michael thought his name was Gavin--hissed a word that made everyone freeze: _"Teacher!"_

The students frantically disengaged, grabbing backpacks and collecting school supplies off the floor. As Crelin shoved him away, Michael distractedly noticed that Roland was already gone. But he had other things to worry about at the moment, like surreptitiously glancing around to see exactly which authority figure was bearing down on them.

As it happened, it was short, thin Mr. Wilson--one of those people whom you can sometimes like, but never respect. "All this noise! What's going on here?" He looked more horrified and hurt than angry, and more than one of the students quietly rolled their eyes as they grabbed holo-books from their lockers . . . but he _did_ have the authority of a teacher and no one wanted to get reported. 

"We were just, you know, kidding around," Michael said, trying hard to make his voice casual. He was not yet sixteen, young enough that he would still fall under the jurisdiction of the Reformed Child Protective Services, should he be unlucky enough to catch its eye. Michael had heard stories of the RCPS. Few of them ended happily.

"Children, children," Mr. Wilson said earnestly, blissfully unaware that his choice of words had instantly alienated everyone there. "You should be in class!"

"We were just . . . "

"We're here 'cause . . ."

"It's like this . . ."

The various mumbled excuses died away, as no one could think of a good explanation. Michael swiftly glanced around and said the first thing that came to mind. "We _would_ be, except we were hanging out and we, uh, lost track of the time because we were checking out when the, um, try-outs were." He pointed at the bright poster plastered on the wall. "Come EXPERIENCE the fun of SPORTS!!!!" it screamed.

"Ah! The new sports program! Excellent!" Mr. Wilson brightened. "A splendid idea--just the thing to let young people work off their excess energy."

"Yeah," Michael agreed with considerably less enthusiasm, beginning to edge away towards his classroom. The others, upperclassmen and underclassmen alike, looked like they were about to follow his example.

But Mr. Wilson clamped a hand on his shoulder with an encouraging smile and asked, "Which of these intriguing sports were you thinking of, Michael? Any of them in particular?" 

"Oh . . . yes. Uh . . . that one," he stabbed randomly at the poster.

A faint snicker rose from the upperclassmen, but the teacher didn't appear to notice as he leaned forward. "Football?"

"Yes," Michael said recklessly. He'd never heard of football, but so what? It wasn't like he'd ever heard of anything else on the list either.

"Well, I'm sure you'll do wonderfully." The teacher patted him kindly on the shoulder. "You kids better run off to class now, though."

"Yes, sir," everyone mumbled, shuffling in a final gathering of books. Michael had just begun running through possible excuses for his tardiness and estimating which one would go over best with his History of Electronics teacher when Crelin sideswiped him with his shoulder as he swept past.

"Hey!" Michael said indignantly. Surely even someone as big and stupid as Crelin wouldn't start a fight with a teacher still watching??

"Oooops . . . _so_ sorry. Hey Carter . . ." The muscular senior grinned at him, and not a nice grin. "See you on the playing field!" And he and his cronies walked away laughing as though they'd just heard the world's funniest joke.

Michael stared after them in confusion. _What was_ that_ all about?_ he wondered as he trotted down the hallway. He had an uncomfortable suspicion that he would learn soon enough.

* * *

_"Football?_ Awww, Michael . . . _anything_ would've been better than football!" Jeff groaned as he pulled out his lunch. 

"Why? What's so terrible about football?" Michael frowned over his sandwich. The Inferior Five were gathered in an out-of-the-way corner of the cafeteria, near the corner of the raucous room.

"It was one of the more _violent_ sports," Valan explained. 

"It can't be that bad if they let students p-play it," Sprig protested.

"Look, I don't pretend to be an expert, but they've already started the pre-season practices, so I've got a rough idea of the game. First they take this ball that's kind of oval, but pointed at the ends, right?" Jeff grabbed a pen and sketched out the rough shape. "Then they give the ball to some guy, right? Then a bunch of OTHER guys chase him down this big field and try to tackle him and break his legs."

_"Break his legs?"_

"That's sure what it LOOKS like."

"Not good!" Doug squeaked, and for once everyone agreed with him.

"Well . . . I can run pretty fast . . ." Michael said, trying to sound confident.

"You should try out for basketball," Valan advised. "You've got the right build for it--tall and skinny."

"I'm not skinny, I'm _thin._ Anyway, I can't back out after everyone heard me say I was trying out for football--"

"'Everyone' consisting of us, five seniors, and a teacher no one likes? C'mon, just drop it. It's not like it matters--"

"It matters to _me,"_ he snapped.

"Michael. Think about what you're doing. You're gonna get yourself killed."

"I agree. If it's really that d-dangerous, you shouldn't do it."

"I _know_ what I'm doing and I can make my _own_ decisions, thank you very much." His eyes narrowed, two slits of bright blue, as his temper flared. 

An uneasy silence settled as he viciously tore into his sandwich. At last Jeff broke the silence. "That _was_ incredible, though. BAM! And down he went!"

"Served him right," Doug sniffed.

"Yeah, well . . ." Michael couldn't quite suppress a grin.

"I've waited for _years_ for someone to take him down like that!"

"But we only been in high school half a year . . ."

"Well, if I'd _known_ about the jerk before then I _would've_ been waiting--"

"The look on his face--that was just _p-priceless."_

"Were you scared? You _had_ to have been scared."

"Naaah . . ."

"What made you go after him, Michael?" Valan asked, tilting his head curiously. "Was it because of what he was doing to that kid or was it because of . . . ummmm . . . what he said?"

There was a short, tense pause during which the others concentrated solely on their food, studiously avoiding Michael's eyes. Just because he'd never been known to get into fistfights before didn't mean he wasn't . . . sensitive . . . about certain issues. Indeed, he did have to push through a quick, hot surge of anger--not directed at Valan, really, but at the world in general--before he answered. But he managed to keep his voice light and calm. "Does it matter?"

"No, I guess not," Valan conceded, returning to his meal, and everyone relaxed.

"Anyone seen that mutate kid around since the fight, by the way?" Jeff asked. "I haven't."

"He's in my Biology class," Doug offered.

"I saw him in Advanced M-mathematics. Overheard him talking to the t-teacher after class . . . I think they're gonna pull him out and put him in some special school."

"Oh. Well, maybe it's for the best. I mean, he'd probably rather go somewhere where he won't be teased all the time," Michael said.

"I dunno . . ." Jeff chewed slowly. "I heard they're starting some weeeeeird programs for mutates."

"They?"

"The government. Supposedly they're doing, y'know, freaky covert stuff where they train 'em to track stuff down, just like animals."

"Sounds like some s-sort of urban legend to _me."_

"What do you expect from the guy who believes in Batman?" Michael teased, standing as the first bell rang.

"Heeeeey, I'm telling you guys--" Jeff gathered his books and followed the others out, although only snatches of his speech were audible above the chattering crowd as they merged with the mass of students pushing their way out of the lunchroom. "--really saw him . . . standing on the rooftop . . . big black _cape!"_

Michael hardly listened, having heard the story many times before and still believing less than half of it. He was more focused on practical matters. How was he going to survive this "football" thing? 

  



	6. Chapter Five

  


_**Chapter Five**_

Treasure the love you receive above all. It will survive long after your gold and good health have vanished. - _Og Mandino _

* * *

  


He thought about it as he walked home late that day, staring up at the grey, low-hanging clouds filling the few gaps that the towering high rises provided. By law, the space that would have been occupied by the fiftieth to fifty-eighth floors in the buildings had been removed in the interest of accommodating the hovercar traffic. However, the fifty-ninth floors and above continued after that brief interlude, supported by strong yet minimal supportive scaffolding, brilliantly engineered to withstand the enormous weight. _Valan could end up designing things like that. He's really good at that sort of stuff._ Hovercars swarmed along the narrow, shadowed streets as well, sparing only the thin sidewalks, lined with hairline fractures.

Michael paused over the river, as he always did. It wasn't visible, of course, but he could hear it, over the swooshing, beeping traffic, faintly gurgling beneath the bridges and vast steel plates that hid it, even as they denied the difference of the island and the mainland. He listened to it for a while before continuing. The last leg of the journey was always the worst, into the dark, hopeless heart of Gotham. Angry scrawls of graffiti marked the crumbling buildings, screaming their spray-paint obscenities at the women stretching and strutting on the corners and the huddles of shifty-eyed men gathered in broken doorways, watching the empty street. Watching Michael. 

He always did his studying at school, sitting alone in the low-lit cafeteria after hours, leaning over his books, and then left his school supplies in his locker for the night, backpack and all. Carrying anything that could be pawned would mark him as a target on these streets. Desperate-eyed men occasionally mugged him anyway, or would have if he'd had any money to surrender. He was lucky, he supposed, that he had only ever come across muggers. There were far worse on the streets of Gotham. 

At last Michael reached his apartment building, faded and dingy grey beneath the flickering streetlights that emphasized the cracks in the cement facade. A series of basic, metal doors lined the building, each one with its own buzzer. Number 9 was home, such as it was. He pressed the buzzer and waited; he could have simply carried a pass-card, but then there was always the danger that someone would steal it from him on one of his trips home. And of course they couldn't simply leave the door unlocked either . . . So Michael waited patiently, eyeing a filthy, one-eyed dog that wandered down the street as he did so. 

The metallic door suddenly retracted into the wall, not smoothly but in stuttering, scraping jerks. "Michael! Thank heavens, I was beginning to worry!" His mother pulled him inside, pulling him into a brief hug which both embarrassed and pleased Michael. 

"I'm fine, Ma," he said, pushing away as he smiled reassuringly. 

Unconvinced, she fussed with his collar. "I don't like the idea of you out there by yourself. Maybe we should have you ride the monorail--"

"I like walking. And anyway, I need the exercise," he lied swiftly, sincerely. The monorail passes were thirty credits each, and their expenses were stretched to the limit as it was.

"But I _worry_ about you."

"But you don't need to," he assured her, moving into the kitchen to use the food synthesizer. Theirs was not very good and tended to make everything taste vaguely like plain yogurt, but at least it was _food._

His sister was sitting at the table when he entered, just clearing away her silverware. "Hey Michael," she greeted him.

"Hey Michelle," he returned. Michelle also did her homework at school, though usually spread out on the floor of the hallway rather than in the cafeteria. But unlike Michael, she breezed effortlessly through her work, usually arriving home several hours before he did. Michael was thankful that his sister could walk home when it was safer, before the shadowy figures moved from their lurks in the alleys onto the street . . . but he couldn't help feeling a little _jealous_ of Michelle sometimes.

"How was school, Michael?" 

"Fine." He kept his voice casual; he'd been half afraid that she would somehow discover, somehow _know_ about the fight. But then how would she? "We're working on ratios and probability in math."

"That's nice."

Privately, Michael thought "boring" was a more accurate description, but he didn't say so. Instead he said, "Did you know combinations that equal seven will turn up on two six-sided dice more than any other number?" as he punched in the code for pizza. A sudden, deafening silence followed and so he turned to see why. "Ma?"

Her face had gone white as she stared at him like he was a stranger. Michael approached, his blue eyes widening a bit in concern. "Ma, are you ok--?"

With a movement so swift all he saw was a blur, she grabbed him by the ear and marched out of the kitchen, pulling him in her wake.

"Ow! Hey! My _pizza!"_ Michael protested as he head a tell-tale beep from the kitchen. Unmindful, his mother dragged him over to the couch. "Ma--" he rubbed his ear as he looked up at her from his seat on the worn paisley upholstery. "What are you--"

"What have you been doing with _dice?"_ his mother demanded. 

"Wha-what?" He stared in astonishment as she continued, her voice trembling and her eyes filled with tears.

"There's _no_ reason for you to have such things! NONE!"

"I--but I--"

Her voice rose. "Do you know what gambling did to _your father?_ To THIS FAMILY? _We lost everything!"_

"Yes, but--" 

"Mother--hey--" Michelle tried to intervene, but was ignored.

"I _won't_ lose another to such sickness!" His mother shook him by the shoulders. "What have you been doing, Michael? _What have you been doing?!"_

"Ma--_probability_--I haven't been--" A wave of hurt washed over him. How could she think he would--? "It was for _school,_ Ma."

She paused, blinking suspiciously through her tears as she searched his eyes.

"It was for school," he repeated, trying for a reassuring smile and managing an unsure one.

"It was for school," Michelle confirmed, gently placing a hand on her mother's shoulder. "Remember, Mike was talking about math?"

"For school . . ." Her voice only trembled a little now. "What . . . what were they doing with those . . . those nasty things at school?"

"It was--there weren't even any real dice, Ma, it was just an example. Okay? An example from the book." He looked up at her, desperately wanting her to believe him. "I would never . . . I would never do anything to _hurt_ you--"

She suddenly pulled him up into a tight hug. "Oh Michael . . . I'm so sorry, sweetie. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"Hey . . . don't cry . . ." He patted her back awkwardly as she buried her head in his shoulder. "Don't cry. It's okay, Ma. It's okay."

"You're such a good boy, but I just . . . I _worry_ about you . . . You must think I'm terrible, a terrible mother--"

"Don't be silly," he pulled back enough that she could see his smile as he quickly blinked away a few tears of his own. "You've done so much for us . . . You've _sacrificed_ so much. You're the best mom ever." 

She smiled back as she wiped away the wetness from her eyes. "You're a good boy," she repeated, reaching up to ruffle his hair. "We should really get you a monorail pass, though . . ."

"Ma, I don't _need_ a monorail pass," he sighed. 

"That's what you say, but I don't want you wearing out your feet with all that walking," she fussed. When he tried to protest, she cut him off. "I mean it, Michael, I don't want you kidnapped by hooligans one night. A monorail pass. Now you go eat that pizza before it gets cold, dear."

"Yes, Ma," he said, giving up the fight. He knew when he'd been beaten.

  



End file.
